'You have finished, I see,' she said. 'And have you formed an opinion?'
'Yes, I have.' Steeling myself, I went on: 'Miss Bringhome… I believe your father, for all his undoubted expertise, was suffering from a most profound delusion.'
The old woman was silent for a moment. Then she rang a small bell at her side, which summoned the young servant into the room. I really thought I was to be shown out of the house. Instead, she said to the servant, 'William, the kind gentleman wishes to visit the workshop.' Before I could say anything in reply, Miss Bringhome turned back to me: 'My lather's laboratory,' she said, by way of explanation. 'I will meet you there.'
From the very first moment my eye chanced upon Lucinda Tonguebright's name, I had felt myself caught in the grip of some superior force; now, following the servant down a short flight of steps, to the basement of the house, I knew that force had me completely in its thrall. The steps led to a short corridor, at the end of which the servant unlocked a heavy door. Inside, a dark cavernous room was dominated by a large cylindrical shape. Even in the darkness I had no doubt as to its nature. The apparatus was perhaps six feet tall by four feet in diameter, consisting of a broad base out of which a pair of entwined pipes rose upwards. The pipes were made of brass, or some similar metal, and were folded in such a way as to leave an opening through to the empty space at the very centre of the machine. I could not stop myself from gasping out loud:
'The Charisma Engine!'
'Do you still not believe?' answered a voice from behind me. Turning, I saw that Hildegard Bringhome was now approaching along the corridor. She glided past me to take up a position beside the machine. 'Surely, now, you will write a favourable report?'
'!…!…' Stuttering, I then said the words that would continue to haunt me for as long as I lived: 'I should have to see it in operation."
The old woman looked at me deeply for a moment, and then nodded to the servant. This young man activated a few switches set into the base of the machine, causing the pipes to hum with some spectral energy, and the central space to glow with expectancy. A soft emission of light seeped into Miss Bringhome's skin, and she grew more vigorous than I had ever seen her, as though she were taking strength from the machine. She moved around the Charisma Engine with what seemed a youthful energy, directing the servant in his work and every so often looking at me with a crazed expression on her face.
But even with my limited knowledge of the Engine and its processes, I could see that the apparatus was in dire need of repair. The pipes now made a fearful noise, as of so many wailing, electrified souls, and the light within danced erratically in a ballet of sparks. The machine seemed to be dragging the air towards itself, so that I could hardly breathe; and any breath I could inhale was layered with a stench of what I could only imagine was burning flesh! I felt as though I might faint, so overpowering was the experience.
I saw then a shadow forming in the centre of the machine; a shadow that pulled substance for itself from the air around it, growing darker by the second, and veined with fire. I could hardly move. Was I finally to see Lucinda Tonguebright's image appearing before me?
But the image seemed too dark, too full. It was a man's shape forming there, within the cylinder of light. Perhaps some poor, random soul was being pulled through. But no; as the figure congealed, and the face gathered some small semblance of humanity - with a shock I recognized it. This pained, broken face, this half-formed mouth split in a hideous scream; they were the mutated features of Professor Alexander Bringhome himself!
And I thought back to what I had read earlier: the professor's theories about the exchange of charisma had proven correct. In order for the Charisma Engine to work it had fuelled itself on the image of its very own creator. Evidently, the machine was still not functioning properly, perhaps because of its age. Now that same creator was trapped within its force field, howling to be released.
With a shock, I came out of my frozen mood. Miss Bringhome was standing by my side, gazing rapturously at her father's caged image. Without even looking at me, she said, 'Now, do you believe?' Before I could say a word, I felt two strong arms grab me from behind. It was the manservant, William. Under Miss Bringhome's direction, he was forcing me ever closer to the Engine. They meant to exchange me! To feed my image to the machine, in order that the professor be released.
I struggled as best I could, but my body seemed almost hollow, as though the process had already begun. Only when my face was actually over the threshold, and I felt my spirit being sucked from me, did I find a last vestige of strength. With an almighty effort, I managed to swing around, taking the servant with me. This young man was now in the position I had just been in: pressed up against the opening of the Charisma Engine. I heard Miss Bringhome scream, and felt a cold shiver run through me. I then, and with no remorse, pushed the servant away from me.
The machine had him. For a moment the two figures within it - the shadow of the professor, the terrified, struggling form of the servant - seemed to perform a little dance, a perverted waltz. There was an explosion of light, which engulfed them both and from which only one of them finally emerged.
It was the professor. Or rather - his image. Floating above the prone body of the servant, this shimmering, transparent form raised its hands to its face, perhaps in disbelief. Only the eyes of the figure held any real semblance of life; filled with a burning desire, they fixed upon Miss Bringhome's smiling face. Descending now from the confines of the Engine, the professor floated closer to his daughter's waiting arms.
I was standing to one side, still in a profound state of shock from the events of the last few minutes. I may as well have not been in the room at all, for all the attention the two people paid me. Slowly now, as though nervous of the lost years, father and daughter came together in a tentative embrace.
It was only then that I realized that the professor had never had a daughter, and that his original experiment had been only too successful. For before my very eyes, Miss Bringhome discarded her old woman's image, and the image beneath that, of the beautiful young woman I had occasionally glimpsed. In their place stood the uncompromising appearance of Lucinda Tonguebright, albeit made from light, rather than flesh. I remembered then the words from the professor's final notebook: 'Lucinda will be mine alone.'
And the two gossamer contours wrapped around each other, in intimate reflection of the Charisma Engine that stood behind them.
Without saying a word, I left the room. I walked quickly up the stairs and out of the front door. I did not stop even to pick up my belongings. It was enough that I took this with me: this body; this trembling, thickset, awkward mess of flesh and blood.
SPACEACHE AND HEARTSHIPS
This morning, the papers and the television were filled with pictures of the sky lit by fire. Now that the British lunar rocket has finally been launched, I feel duty bound to write of my own journey to the moon. Consider me mad or simply a liar; the decision is yours, whoever you are and whatever world you inhabit.
Five years ago I was asked to join the team of scientists in charge of preparing the flight path. As first assistant to the esteemed Professor Lucas Gull, the country's leading expert on gravitational science, my job would be to help him plot the optimum course for the mission, weighing all the sky's myriad factors.